Interview: Per Petterson: The call of solitude

The protagonist of Per Petterson's "Out Stealing Horses" just wants to be alone. The recently widowed Trond, 67, has moved to a cabin in the far east of Norway and now takes comfort in his daily routines -- rinsing out his Thermos, stacking fire wood, whistling for his dog and sharpening his Jonsered chainsaw. The quietude is shattered when Trond's neighbor turns out to be someone he knew in childhood, and whose knock on the door pulls aside 50 years of history "with a lightness that seems almost indecent." Trond is forced to remember the summer of 1948, when both personal and global tragedy forever changed every friendship and every familial relationship.

Petterson, who lives in Hemnes, Norway, won both the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and the Dublin IMPAC Award for his coming-of-age tale, which critics have called powerful, symphonic and quietly compelling. We caught up with him by e-mail (like his protagonist, he likes to guard his privacy), in the midst of working on a new novel, celebrating the birth of a grandchild and preparing for his U.S. book tour.

Q Let's start with the fact that the English translation [by Anne Born] of this award-winning book was published by a nonprofit press here in St. Paul, Minnesota. Did you find Graywolf or did Graywolf find you?

A In fact I do not know how it came about, except that it was Graywolf that found me. What they did not know was that I had found Graywolf about 20 years ago, when I worked in a bookshop called Tronsmo in Oslo, and was head of import there. I fell flat for their books and imported them to Norway, read them myself and sold them. The world sometimes moves in circles, and I am very happy to be where I am. At Graywolf.

Q In the first few pages of "Out Stealing Horses," the narrator, Trond, enjoys a state of solitude that is near heavenly. Do you sometimes have that same wish to be alone?

A Very much so, and I often am. Living here where I live, on a farm way out in the countryside, in the woods, in fact, I have plenty of time to be alone, and I like it. I always have. I like my own company. And I am not the only one who feels this way; a high percentage of the Norwegian population feel as I do. It is our brand of Buddhism. If you have read "Pan," by Knut Hamsun, you will get an idea of what I mean.

Q In childhood, Trond reflects on the differences between Norway and Sweden -- wondering, for example, if river water tastes any different after it takes a little trip through Sweden. These are differences that are joked about here in Minnesota as ridiculously indistinguishable or seriously vast. Which do you think they are?

A Neither, I think. It is only something that can pass through your mind in a flash of a moment, like when the languages are different, some national traits are different, why shouldn't water taste differently? In the time that traveling was something you usually could not afford, everything outlandish seemed to be filled with strangeness. So why not?

Q World War II and a shattering household tragedy share the stage in this novel. Do you think the human spirit processes these events differently?

A I think they certainly do. The deaths and murders of the war, any war, but this in particular, are so vast, so massive, that it in one way is difficult to grasp, the devilishness of it, and at the same time you are not alone, you share this maniac life with so many. That is why some people here in Europe could say "it was better during the war." It is a meaningless thing to say, of course, but what they mean is they miss the solidarity between people, that feeling of shoulder to shoulder, sharing the conditions of the world.

In a household tragedy, you are very much aware of being alone. It is something that is possible to grasp, and that is why it hurts so much. Because you are alone. I know a little about this.

Q You lost several members of your family (parents, a brother and a niece) when the Scandinavian Star ferry burned in 1990. Did that incomprehensible loss increase your urgency to write?

A It is true I did, and it was a strange year, like going on some kind of speed, pushing grief always 'round the next corner, until it caught up with you. But no, it did not increase my urgency to write. I do not think of literature as something confessional or therapeutic. I make sentences in order to be precise about experiences and things. I am urged by many things and no things in particular. Most of what is connected with the things that happened in 1990, is personal in a private way and cannot be written about.

Q What are book lovers in Norway arguing about?

A I am not sure I know. There is always this quarrel about what is preferable, the straight naturalistic epic storytelling or the modernistic, disjointed, slightly hermetic one. To me it does not matter, as long as it's good. I like both kinds. Although the common reader seems to prefer the first, which is to be expected, and who would blame her?

Sarah T. Williams is the Star Tribune Books editor.

Sarah T. Williams • swilliams@startribune.com